Twelfth Night; Or, What You Will

by William Shakespeare

SIR TOBY. An thou let part so, Sir Andrew, would thou mightst never draw sword again.

SIR ANDREW. And you part so, mistress, I would I might never draw sword again. Fair lady, do you think you have fools in hand?

MARIA.
Sir, I have not you by th' hand.

SIR ANDREW.
Marry, but you shall have; and here's my hand.

MARIA. Now, sir, 'thought is free.' I pray you, bring your hand to th' buttery-bar and let it drink.

SIR ANDREW.
Wherefore, sweet-heart? what's your metaphor?

MARIA.
It's dry, sir.

SIR ANDREW.
Why, I think so; I am not such an ass but I can keep my hand dry.
But what's your jest?

MARIA.
A dry jest, sir.

SIR ANDREW.
Are you full of them?